Dan heard the noise again. He wasn't dreaming. Someone had opened a door and closed it quietly. He gently removed Allie's arm from across his chest. She sighed and turned away. He eased out of bed and crept to the morning light filtering through the flimsy curtains of the second-floor window.

He edged the curtain aside. The house's shadow embraced the sloping front lawn and flower beds. Not a cloud in the sky beyond. Soon the sun would climb from behind the house and create another steaming July day.

Two men stood beside a van parked near the garage. Any escape in his car was blocked. Somehow, even in Duncan, a tiny spot near the center of the Illinois map, they had found him. Allie touched his shoulder. He jumped and pushed her away from the window.

She slid her arms under his, placed her hands on his chest and pressed warm, bare breasts into his back.

"Sorry I woke you," Dan said. "They're here already. There'll be more, no doubt. Here comes another van."

Allie kissed his shoulder and shuddered. "Mother's up. We better get dressed and downstairs before they start pounding on the door."

She stayed close as he turned in her arms, leaned his torso into hers, and pushed a lock of brown-sugar hair from her forehead.

She said, "Danny Boy, we can't do this now."

"I know. And don't call me Danny Boy."

In the kitchen, Elizabeth Ainsworth glared at her daughter. "I heard those people out there," she said. "It's your fault. Get those horrid creatures out of my yard. They'll be in the house next." She leaned forward in her wheelchair and patted her hair.

"You must have been up awhile," Allie said. "Where's your housecoat and curlers? You hoping to get your picture taken?"

Mrs. Ainsworth opened her mouth to answer. Pounding on the front door silenced her.

"Stay here," Dan said. "I'll talk to them."

He crossed the living room and opened the door. Reporters, photographers and camera toters confronted him. Vans and cars lined the driveway. Others were parked on the street. They had dragged lawn chairs and equipment across the yard up to the house. Others sat on portable seats spiked into the lush grass. They were in various stages of summer undress. It was Duncan's first media blitz.

A tall, lean-faced man with fierce eyes said, "Mister Jones, we want to interview you and the woman."

"Forget that. I'll be out there after I've had my breakfast. Now excuse me." He slammed the door.

Allie looked out the front window and ducked as a woman with a camcorder on her shoulder approached.

"They look like vultures fighting over a corpse in a television documentary," Allie said. "The whole thing is repugnant."

"I suppose that's your word for today," Dan said.

"Yes, it is. Repugnant--that which excites distaste or aversion."

"How did you find time this morning to look that up?"

"I looked it up last night. I look up my word for the next day every night."

Dan stood behind her. He wondered if she memorized the word and its meaning while they made love. What did it matter now? How had they found him? He imagined the media, in the early morning hours, streaming south from Chicago and north from Springfield on Interstate 55. They would have turned west on the county road and crossed old Route 66.

"The police might run them off the property, but it won't do any good until we let them get their pictures," he said.

Mrs. Ainsworth wheeled her chair to face him and said, "The police? What police? Chief Buford, his two-man staff? Maybe Eleanor, the dispatcher?"

He knelt in front of her wheelchair. "They'll keep coming back, sneaking around. The best way is to let them take their pictures, refuse to answer their questions and hope they'll go away."

"Don't tell us what to do, Danny Boy. This is your fault, too. As soon as those ... those persons leave I want you to leave."

Allie stood beside the window and said, "There's trucks, reporters and cameramen from all the Chicago stations. And a Chicago Tribune van. Even a van from the Springfield paper where I worked. God, what will they think now?"

Dan said, "I'll have to talk to them."

Mrs. Ainsworth wheeled closer to the front window and stared out. A camera flash smacked into her eyes. She backed away and said, "If it will get them to leave us alone, do it."

"Allie, you'll have to come out, too, when I signal," Dan said.

He stood near the kitchen door a few seconds, threw back his shoulders and stepped out into the backyard. Sunlight blinded him for an instant. A flock of squawking reporters caught up when he was halfway to the garage. He plowed on. Shouts ripped the air. "Who took the nude photos? Does this have anything to do with the Chicago scandal?"

He retrieved a step ladder from the garage, pushed it against the pressing reporters, placed it on the driveway and climbed up two steps. Bodies and photographic equipment bumped against the ladder, threatening to knock it over. He gripped the top and held up his other hand.

"Where's the woman? Do the nude photos of you and this Ainsworth woman have anything to do with the scandal in Chicago?"

Questions were repeated, and new ones came like shots from a surrounding army. He kept his hand raised and his mouth shut. Shouts gradually turned to murmurs.

"As most of you probably know, I've been through this before. I will not be intimidated. We are not going to answer questions. None. Zero. You have half an hour to shoot your pictures. Back up enough so that Allison Ainsworth can come out and then take your pictures. Remember, no questions or we go back in the house and call the police."

Reporters and cameramen grudgingly backed off an inch at a time. Allie came out the back door at Dan's beckoning and hurried to the ladder. She climbed up one step and clung to Dan. He put his arm around her shoulders and noted she had combed her unruly hair. Her face was tense, flushed. Her eyes glowed with fear and fascination as she scanned the faces in front of them. Flash bulb and camcorder lights bounced from them like blows. The crowd inched forward as those in back pushed.

Dan shouted, "Those of you in front will have to move out so the others can get their shots."

He squeezed Allie's hand and whispered, "It'll soon be over. Look beyond them at the sky, think about what a nice day it is. It's easier not to answer if you don't look at them."

Later he held up his arm and pointed to his wristwatch.

"Time's up," he shouted. "Now get off the property. You've already torn up the yard and the flower beds. Five minutes and I call police."

Dan tried not to hear, but different voices penetrated. One, a woman's, shouted shrill questions as the crowd grudgingly receded toward the street.

"Who took the photos? Did they pay you for posing nude? Mister Jones, Mister Jones! Why did you leave Chicago and come to this little town? To get away from that scandal?"

"This berg is his home town," a male voice shouted.

In the house, once the crowd had vacated the yard and was gathered on the street among the vehicles, Dan called police.

"There's a mob blocking traffic on Wentworth Avenue," Dan told the dispatcher, Mrs. Buford, the police chief's wife.

"Where?"

"Wentworth is a block long. Where do you think?"

"In front of the Ainsworth house, right? I'll send Elmer."

Dan replaced the phone in its kitchen-wall cradle and sagged into a chair. He wiped sweat from his brow and sipped cold coffee.

"She's sending Elmer Davis out. Won't he be important for a few days, telling the whole town how he handled the media crowd at the Ainsworth house."

Through the kitchen window, the blue sky remained serene. He and Allie had put Duncan on the map temporarily. In a few days, the furor over the story and published photos of him and Allie nude, swimming and loving on the beach, would be replaced by whatever was new. But not in Duncan. In Duncan it would live on as another chapter in the story of Danny Boy Jones' humiliation.

"Mother, he was found innocent," Allie had said that first day Dan Jones came back into their lives.

"I don't care; you're not letting him in."

Allie wiped a cobweb from the wall beside the front door. Oh well, she thought, with the drapes drawn what could he see if he came inside? And she wanted to see him, see how he'd changed, find out the reason why he'd returned to Duncan.

"Move. I can't see," Mrs. Ainsworth said.

Dan stood at the bottom of the sloping drive gazing at the house. He shaded his eyes from the June sun.

Allie said, "Remember when he used to bring the ironing? He must be almost six feet tall now. And he's filled out. He used to be so skinny. And those loose overalls he wore in the summer. No shoes, nothing else except those loose overalls. That was my first glimpse of a penis."

Mrs. Ainsworth gasped.

"Why must you say such things? Just to shock me? Surely you don't talk that way in public, at work."

"Oh, you'd be surprised the things we talk about around the copy desk. Police arrested a woman last night who claimed she'd had sex with fifteen men that day. Imagine that. The police reporter told us."

Mrs. Ainsworth pushed her chair back into her daughter. Allie wheeled her out of the way and opened the screen door.

"He's only here because of that yard work ad I put in the Advertiser. You're the one who wants the yard cleaned up. Think of it, a successful stock broker, a man involved in a messy Chicago sex scandal, is answering our ad for someone to do yard work. The most I hoped for was a high school football player."

"If you let him in, I'll call the police," Mrs. Ainsworth said.

Allie went outside and stood on the stoop. She brushed a hand over her hair and wished she'd combed it. And the shorts she had on. They should have been tossed in the wash two days ago. She had spilled jam on her T-shirt at breakfast. She intended to change before Danny Boy arrived, but her mother had kept her busy.

Dan studied the house and its sloping lawn. Determined weeds emphasized cracks in the cement drive. He bent and fingered the picket-fence post beside the drive entrance. His initials were still there, obscured by layers of graying, cracked paint. The fence across the front yard, white when he was a youngster, had seemed much longer then.

Fifteen years before, when he was sixteen, he carved his initials in the post. He wondered if Allie ever noticed. Even though it was a dark night, he nearly got caught. He heard the horse in time to duck around the fence and hide. Allie was riding bareback behind Ed Searle. She had said, "I'm scared. You should have used a rubber. We should have been more careful. What if I'm ... what if I get pregnant?"

Dan hesitated at the bottom of the drive. The lawn, always carefully trimmed when he was young, now resembled an unused pasture with islands of weeds where flower beds had been. The house's roof still sloped gracefully, the eaves still flared, and shutters emphasized the numerous windows on both floors. A second-floor shutter hung by one hinge. The outside of the house had weathered into a dull gray. He remembered it as gleaming white. The shutters, now faded, had matched the lush green of the lawn.

He watched as a woman came out of the front door and lit a cigarette. She gazed at him. Could this be Allison, the snotty little girl who looked down her nose at him when he delivered the ironing?

Mrs. Ainsworth had warned him once, "If this happens again, I'll hire someone else to do the ironing, young man."

Losing the ironing job would have been a disaster for his mother. And only one little white blouse got dirty when he dropped the basket. Mrs. Ainsworth had gone into a tantrum when she found the soiled blouse hidden under a dark skirt. He had to come back, listen to Mrs. Ainsworth's lecture, take the blouse to his mother who washed it immediately and ironed it again. Then he had to return it, all in the same day.

It was during summer vacation. The girl and her mother stared at him as if he were naked. He guessed, once he got out of there, maybe he should start wearing underwear beneath the overalls. Maybe even shoes, but only when he was delivering ironing. There was no reason, otherwise, for a boy to wear shoes in the summer.

So long ago. And now here he was. It would be different this time. They needed a yardman, no doubt about that. The grass was four inches high, higher in places. He saw the ad quite by accident as he sat beside the Starlite Motel pool absently looking at Duncan's one-page Advertiser. A classified caught his eye because of the address, 1310 Wentworth Avenue, Allie Ainsworth's address. Mrs. Ainsworth probably still lived there, he guessed, but would Allie? No, she probably was married by now, probably to Ed Searle or maybe Tony Bracken.

A young woman answered the phone when he called about the ad. A maid perhaps.

The woman had asked his name, paused for a long moment, and told him to come for an interview at three o'clock. Why not? It would be interesting to see the house again.

Now he trudged up the walk, as nervous as when he dropped the ironing. At least he wasn't wearing oversized overalls and nothing else. His walking shorts were from Armond's in Chicago, had only been worn a few times. He'd never before worn the coordinated shirt although he'd had it for months. His leather sandals cost more than he and his mother had survived on for a month.

He threw back his shoulders and marched the rest of the way up to the house. The woman stepped off the stoop and stamped out her cigarette on the walk. It was Allison. She didn't look as snooty as he remembered. Her clothes weren't even clean. She smiled. Dan forgot the soiled clothes. In a low, soothing voice she said, "Come in, Mister Jones. I'm Allie. You probably don't remember."

He was a little boy again, standing inside the doorway waiting for the basket of clothing to be ironed.

"Takes awhile to adjust your eyes," Allie said. "Mother refuses to let me open the shades in here, says it will fade the furniture. This used to be a bright, welcoming room. But, of course, things have changed."

It might have been a bright, welcoming room to you, Dan thought, but it was pure terror to me.

"You know who I am, then," Dan said.

"Yes. When you called and left your name, I figured it must be someone else. But mother insisted I check, and I was curious. We had read about your ... well, you know, the stuff in Chicago. I checked at the motel. I'm a copyeditor at the Springfield Gazette. Today's my day off. I'm wondering why you came back, why you called about this job? We can only pay minimum. Mother wants someone to spruce up the yard. I thought maybe a teenager."

"Well, I..."

"Mother is confined to a wheelchair. She won't sell the house, move to where she can be taken care of. I had to give up being a roving reporter and take the desk job. Oh, I'm sorry, come in, come in. Follow me to the kitchen."

Dan followed Allie through a hall that divided the house, becoming more and more aware of the sway of her hips as the light improved. She turned when they got to the kitchen. He noticed freckles, brown hair, short and unruly, a slender nose. It didn't seem so stuck up now. He had forgotten her blue-green eyes or the way her lips turned up at the corners, hinting of a knowing smile about to happen. There was something unusual about her. No makeup, that was it. Never find such a creature in the Chicago crowd he ran with.

She sat at the kitchen table, turned on a small fan in the window beside her and lit another cigarette.

"I had to buy the fan to blow out the offending smoke. Mother doesn't approve of smoking. This is the only place in the house it's permitted. Sit down, please."

Dan pulled out a chair and sat across from her. He was pleased to see the smoke drift toward the fan and zip out.

A harsh voice from behind him said, "Allison, I'm going to call the police."

"Don't be ridiculous, mother. You remember Danny, er, Dan Jones. He's just here to ... well why are you here, Mister Jones? I can't imagine you being interested in yard work."

Dan stood and turned. Mrs. Ainsworth maneuvered her wheelchair back to the kitchen entrance.

"Make us some tea, Allison. Mister Jones is leaving," Mrs. Ainsworth said.

"Mother, don't be so rude. I'm sure Mister Jones doesn't want to clean up our yard. We'll have to find someone else."

Mother and daughter waited.

"As a matter of fact, I do. I thought I'd spend a day or so working outdoors. It's something I haven't done in a long time. When I was a kid, I did all kinds of yard work, repair work, everything."

"Why did you come back to Duncan?" Allie asked.

She filled a royal blue tea kettle and placed it on an electric stove burner. She turned. Dan wondered if his sudden anger showed. What if it did? What right did these two demons from his past have to pry into his affairs?

"I'd rather not discuss my private affairs. I think I'll skip the tea, thanks."

"Don't you have a car?" Mrs. Ainsworth asked.

"Mother, he just said he didn't want to discuss his private affairs. It's none of our business."

Mrs. Ainsworth said, "You were interested enough when you found out he was coming."

"And you weren't?" Allie said.

Dan stood.

"I'm sorry you wasted your time," Allie said. "I wish you'd stay for tea. I'd like to know more about your exciting life in Chicago. That's the kind of life I want. I don't mean all that sensationalism about the dead model. I mean the glamour of the big city, the excitement of going to shows, meeting interesting people, all that."

Allie's eyes shone. She smiled the smile he remembered her bestowing on guys like Ed Searle and Tony Bracken.

Dan returned to the table and sat.

"The Chicago scene was exciting, at first, but it grew old in a hurry. That fast-lane stuff's not for me. I guess that's why I came back here for a few days. Just to get my feet on solid ground.

"When I saw this house again, the feelings of inferiority I had when I was carrying the ironing returned, but they're gone now. Your unforgiving frown, Mrs. Ainsworth, and the snooty attitude of your daughter no longer matter to me. The walk out here was worth more than just the exercise."

"Well, I never..."

"You started this by digging at me as if I were your servant. I suppose I could have been my usual charming self, but both of you annoy me. Don't be concerned. I annoy easily these days."

"The tea's done. Stay long enough to tell me about how snooty I was. I know you're right. I was a snooty thing. Mother taught me well."

"Well, I never..." Mrs. Ainsworth said.

Dan smiled.

"What's so funny?" Allie asked as she placed a steaming cup of tea before him.

"No crumpets?"

"No crumpets," Allie repeated. She smiled. Her even teeth were white in spite of her smoking. He sipped tea. It was a pleasant change from all the coffee he'd consumed in the last few days.

"I don't suppose you know what happened to me?" Mrs. Ainsworth said.

"No. How long have you been in the wheelchair?"

"How long has it been, Allison?"

"Mother, you know exactly how long. Three years and six months. You remind me often enough."

"I had a stroke. My brain and some of my nerves were damaged. I have no balance. I can't walk. Think of all the things you can't do when you can't walk, Mister Jones."

Allie sat, held her cup in both hands and sipped. She said, "If you'd be grateful for the things you can do, we'd both be better off."

"I'm sorry," Dan said.

"Why are you sorry? What difference does it make to you?" Mrs. Ainsworth said.

Should it make any difference to him? Did it? No, not really. His business manner rescued him. He said, "I'm sorry because I don't like to see bad things happen to people. What should I have said?" Dan thought of apologizing for being so irritable. He didn't. Let the old bat be damned.

"We wouldn't need you or anyone if Allison would get off her high horse and take care of things," Mrs. Ainsworth shouted later as Dan walked from the kitchen toward the front door.

Allie said, "Come this way. You can get a better look at what you're missing by not taking the job."

The screen on the outer door leading from the kitchen was torn. Dan nearly tripped over a wooden cane leaning against the door jam. A two-car garage was at the end of the drive to the side of the house. A green wooden fence, about ten yards from the back of the house, bordered a pasture. Two horses, one a gray, the other brown, looked up from their grazing.

Allie moved a wooden ramp and reached under the small back porch, pulled out a covered bucket, took two withered apples from it, replaced the lid and shoved the bucket back under the porch. The horses trotted to the fence.

"They appreciate what I do for them," she said.

She held out a closed fist to each. The horses bobbed their heads until she opened her hands. They carefully nuzzled the apples from her palms and crushed them with large teeth. They bobbed their heads again.

"That's it for now, boys." She turned to Dan. "They're from the riding stable across the way. You remember, Searle's. The horses are a couple of retired gentlemen. I love to ride. Did you do any riding in Chicago?"

"Not in Chicago, but I rode a horse once, sort of. I lived all my life here in Duncan before I went to college and, eventually, Chicago. Still, I never had much experience with farm animals. A bull chased me once."

Allie flipped hair from her eyes. "I saw you once in Chicago. You were one of the celebrity auctioneers at Wilhelm Art Gallery. I was there covering the story because one of the auctioned paintings was by Austie Palmer of Springfield. Did you meet her?"

"I suppose. I was talked into taking part. Don't know much about art. At the moment, I'm into philosophy."

"You're retired already?"

"No, not exactly."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm prying just like mother. It frightens me to think I'm like her, but I suppose I am in many ways. I do love her. It's just that ... sorry, I'm rambling. I'm not usually this, er, a ... loquacious."

They walked to the front yard. Dan knelt beside a raised flower bed. He pulled a dandelion after digging his fingers around the root until it came loose.

"Look," he said. "There are marigolds under the weeds." He pushed aside other weeds and said, "These are salvia."

"Mother would know," Allie said. "She loved to work in these flower beds. Hates it because I won't take care of them. I've got enough to do, taking care of the housework and working at the newspaper. She resents it when I go riding or out with friends."

Dan pulled another weed. He reached for another, stopped and got to his feet. Allie ground her cigarette into the lawn with her heel.

Dan stared at the still visible bits of cigarette paper on the lawn. He said, "Gardening is something I've missed. I didn't realize how much. I used to help April with her flowers and the vegetable garden. She taught me to enjoy seeing seeds sprout. It was good when we harvested tomatoes, peppers, other stuff we grew. Nothing like that in Chicago. I lived in an apartment. Didn't even have to clean. Maids took care of that."

"You called your mother by her first name?

"Yes. She insisted."

They walked to the front of the yard. He stopped. "You apologized for rambling, as you put it. Now it's my turn to apologize. Thanks for the tour. I really would like to work out in the open for a few days. I'm not concerned about the pay. Would it be all right if I cleaned up your yard?"

"Would it be all right? Of course. I've got to start taking care of things. Keep up the repairs. At some point, mother will have to let me sell the house. You're hired."

"Do you have a lawnmower?"

Allie ran her hand through her hair and frowned.

"You want to begin right now? The lawnmower won't start. I meant to take it somewhere. I pulled on the starter rope until my arm hurt. It wouldn't even sputter. It's in the garage. That's another project I've neglected, the garage I mean. It's a mess. The mower is behind my car. I did move the litter enough to make room to try to start it."

Dan headed for the garage. "It probably will take awhile," he said. "Okay?"

"You want to be alone, is that it? Good luck with that stupid old mower."

She turned and walked toward the house before Dan could reply. A dark green Ford Taurus was parked halfway into the garage in front of the lawnmower. The right front fender was seriously dented. A red gasoline can sat nearby. The other half of the garage was littered with stuffed plastic bags, an easy chair with torn upholstery, and a partially sanded table. Cigarette butts dotted the floor around a lawn chair. A motorcycle marked by glittering chrome, sat in a back corner.

Boxes of various sizes were stacked on the floor and on a work bench. Dan cleared the bench and uncovered a tool board containing wrenches, hammers, pliers, and assorted other tools. A sturdy vice was anchored to a corner of the bench.

He spent half an hour stacking boxes nearly all the way to the ceiling after he discovered a step ladder buried in the debris.

He hummed to himself as he selected a socket that fit the single spark plug in the Briggs & Stratton mower engine. He removed the plug and scraped carbon and grease from it with a small screwdriver. He adjusted the gap to what he hoped was the proper space and replaced the plug.

Grease covered his hands by the time he removed and cleaned the sponge air filter. He emptied the mower fuel tank and refilled it with fresh gasoline from the can. He poured a small amount of gasoline into the carburetor, replaced the filter, set the throttle to "start" and pulled the starter rope.

"Damn. Stupid damn dummy. Damn."

He had scraped a knuckle against the mower handle. At least it wasn't bleeding. He pulled again, making sure his hand cleared the handle. Nothing. He pushed the throttle to off, pulled on the starter rope a couple of times to clear the carburetor, and sat in the lawn chair waiting for the fumes to evaporate. Sweat from his forehead slid into his eyes. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, transferring grease from his hand to it.

"I brought you some lemonade," a soothing voice from behind him said.

"Oh my. Look what you've done to those beautiful shorts. And your shirt. Even that beautiful handkerchief. Grease on everything."

Allie handed him a tall, crystal glass filled with lemonade. He gulped half of it.

"I'll take the mower to a repair shop. You can come back tomorrow in some work clothes. Oh, look at this garage. One-hundred per cent better. Sorry. Guess you had to do that to find the tools."

Dan stood and offered her the chair. She made the hint of a curtsey and sat.

"Thank you, sir. This would be quite cozy if it wasn't so hot."

"I tried that fan." Dan pointed to a large fan fastened to the wall above the motorcycle. "It doesn't work. Probably frozen. It could be fixed."

"Are you the original Mister Fixit?"

"Well, April and me, we didn't have much so we made things do. Don't give up on this mower yet. I think it will start unless the plug is bad. If it is, I'll replace it and give it another try."

Dan pulled hard. The motor sputter and died. He tried again. It sputtered, caught, coughed, sputtered again, and settled into a steady roar. He adjusted the throttle and pushed the mower outside.

"You've already saved me a repair bill. I'm lucky you want to get a little down-to-earth exercise. Have fun."

She walked toward the house. Dan resisted the urge to watch. He mowed the back yard, back and forth, back and forth. It was late afternoon when he finished. He had mowed and raked, mowed and raked until the grass was as trim as he could make it. He piled the raked grass in a corner and wondered if there was any wood around he could use to enclose a compost pile. April was a great one for compost. "That way you don't waste anything, even garbage," she would say.

He thought of going to the house and reporting he was done for the day. Instead, he walked down the driveway, turned, looked at the house, and returned to the motel. He trotted part of the way, and anticipated getting a full night's sleep for the first time in weeks. He wasn't there to clean their damned yard, but he was enjoying it anyway.